The Sixties: Diaries:1960-1969

by Christopher Isherwood

  I then asked Aranyananda how he came to join the order, and he gave me a description which was built up move by move and word by word. The curious thing about the story—since his must, after all, be accepted as a genuine conversion, not a caprice—is that Aranyananda apparently wasn’t influenced by any living human being. He was more or less of a freethinker, surrounded by very intellectual brothers and sisters, most of whom have subsequently made for themselves brilliant scientific careers. His father (a [literary] scholar) and his mother would have been horrified if he had told them he was planning to become a monk. So Aranyananda had to run away from home, which he successfully did. He didn’t even have a friend of his own age who would have understood him. . . . And what made Aranyananda decide to become a monk? Simply reading the works of Vivekananda!

  The night he left home was very carefully planned. And yet this boy, who was renouncing a loving family and financial security and all the good things of the world, very nearly missed his train because he couldn’t, at that hour of the night, find anyone to carry his suitcase, and to carry it himself would have been a loss of face! Aranyananda quite saw how funny this was.

  And now, says Aranyananda, he is blissfully happy at the institute, and he and Ranganathananda and Shashi Kanto quite often joke together like equals, making jokes “below the belt” so that onlookers are quite shocked. He says Ranganathananda can skim pebbles with terrific force, using his bent-back middle finger as a catapult, and he can take water in his closed hand and squirt it for astonishing distances.

  Behind all Aranyananda’s stories there is a certain suggestion of “see what a tiger I am—yet I’m as gentle as a dove if you treat me right.” Also, there’s a good deal of name-and-fame awareness. In what other station of life, he asks, would you find famous men and women actually taking the dust of your feet? He frankly delights in this. And he told me, encouragingly, that I should become far better known by my book on Ramakrishna than by any of my novels. (Incidentally, he thinks Romain Rolland’s book is supreme; all I can hope to do is be the next best.)

  I see Aranyananda and Ranganathananda as two of a kind. Aranyananda understands and thoroughly approves of Ranganathananda’s ambitiousness. Shashi Kanto is different. He told Swami that he wants to give up work and spend his time in meditation. But Swami told him to stick to work for the present.

  January 2. The kind of sweat that breaks out on you on a warm smoky morning here is like the unnatural sweat you sweat after taking aspirin.

  This morning, Swami, Krishna and I left the institute by car and drove to Shivananda’s birthplace.585 There we met Sujji Maharaj and went on with him to Brahmananda’s birthplace, Sikra Kulingram. It is a tiny village out on the flat paddy-fields of the Ganges delta, enclosed in an oasis of lush trees and very bright blossoms. There is a shrine there, and a guesthouse.

  Throughout the drive, I felt awful[.] Partly upset stomach and headache, but chiefly rage against the Parliament of Religions, the Ramakrishna Math, India, everything. This is a very deep aversion which I have been aware of from time to time ever since I first got involved with Vedanta. It has—as far as I can figure out—nothing directly to do with Ramakrishna, Vivekananda or Swami. (Did Roman converts to Christianity loathe the Jews all that much the more?) Anyhow, it all expresses itself in the old cry of the ego, I’m being pushed around!

  When we arrived, we were told that Krishna and I would have to share a room. Did I mind this? No—I honestly don’t think so. But I immediately said I had a headache and wanted to lie down. Maybe I did have a headache, but what I really wanted was time to figure out what I was going to do next. I realized that I was going to make a scene and I needed time to rehearse it. Presently, I was through with the rehearsal so I got up and began walking around, feeling better already. It was quite warm, with a brilliant blue sky. The leaves were flashingly green, the flowers were vivid. Dark smiling children sat among them, half hidden in the shadows.

  I found Swami sitting with Sujji Maharaj (whom, at least for the moment, I disliked, as being one of the pushers-around). I took Swami aside and asked him if I could have the car drive me back to Belur Math at once. Swami seemed bewildered, as well he might be. He said gently, yes, of course—but wouldn’t I have lunch first? On such occasions, he seldom asks leading questions. If you want to make a scene you have to make it all by yourself, under your own steam. So now I did. I said, approximately, “Swami—it isn’t just that I’m sick—I feel awful about everything. I’ve made up my mind: I can’t ever talk about God and religion in public again. It’s impossible. I’ve felt like this for a long time.” (Already, I had withdrawn the concessions I had previously planned—to agree to talk in Hollywood after I get home. Some instinct told me that this ultimatum must be drastic or it would make no impression at all.) “I suppose I’ve wanted to spare your feelings, but that’s not right, either. After all, you are my guru—you have to be responsible for me anyway—and you’re probably a saint. Anyhow, you’re the nearest thing to a saint I have ever met. So why shouldn’t you be told how I really feel? It’s the same thing, really, that I told you years ago when I was living at the center: the Ramakrishna Math is coming between me and God. I can’t belong to any kind of institution. Because I’m not respectable—”

  At this Swami laughed, more bewildered, than ever. “But, Chris, how can you say such things? You’re almost too good. You are so frank, so good. You never tell any lie—”

  “I can’t stand up on Sundays in nice clothes and talk about God. I feel like a prostitute. I’ve felt like that after all of these meetings of the parliament, when I’ve spoken. . . . I knew this was going to happen. I should never have agreed to come to India. After I promised you I’d come, I used to wake up every morning, feeling awful—”

  “Oh, Chris—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you—”

  “You know, the first time I prostrated before you, that was a great moment in my life. It really meant something tremendous to me, to want to bow down before another human being. And here I’ve been making pranams to everybody—even to people I’ve quite a low opinion of. And it’s just taking all the significance out of doing it—”

  “But, Chris, you don’t have to do it. Nobody here expects it of you—”

  All this time, we were walking up and down in the brilliant sunlight, along the path between the ranks of glossy dark leaves, with Krishna somewhere in the middle distance, and Sujji Maharaj and the others on the porch of the guesthouse, and the hidden children watching. I felt that everybody knew a scene was taking place. I also felt that I was acting hysterically. Indeed, I couldn’t have looked Swami in the eye while I was saying all this. But I didn’t have to, because I was wearing the dark glasses belonging to Jim Cole. (I brought them with me to the airport to give back to him—he left them at our house—but then he never showed up, so I had to take them along on this trip.)

  Swami had barely understood a word. He was quite dismayed. “I don’t want to lose you, Chris,” he said. I told him there was absolutely no question of that. That I loved him just as much as ever. That this had nothing to do with him. But still he didn’t understand. He looked at me with hurt brown eyes. I felt rather awful and cruel—but not very. However dishonest all this may have been in one sense (for, after all, by taking this stand, I am saving myself one hell of a lot of work and annoyance) at least its expression was honest and frank. It was far better to have spoken than not to have spoken. The boil was lanced and I felt better immediately. Sujji Maharaj received the news that I was going back to the Math with his usual slightly cynical impassivity. “Can’t take it, huh?” he was thinking. He often used to look like this when I was sick during my last visit. We had a silent embarrassed lunch at which I ate only rice. Then the chauffeur drove me back into Calcutta in a cloud of red dust. Through the eyes of my relief, India suddenly seemed charming. The long fruit market alongside the street of De Ganga village, where we were stalled behind produce trucks. I almost loved the dark-skinned country peop
le, so completely absorbed in the business of their world and shouting at each other in angry voices without anger and with campy fun. And I was so happy to get back to my quiet room at the guesthouse.

  When I told Prema about all of this, he was most understanding. I hope he’ll be able to explain things to Swami in due course.

  January 3. At lunch Nikhilananda talked at length about John Moffitt and his defection from the order to become a Catholic.586 He often refers to Moffitt; it’s obvious that he feels guilty and responsible for what happened and is trying to forestall criticism. Nikhilananda is very sympathetic at such moments, because he really does seem to cover all Moffitt’s reasons for leaving him, including Nikhilananda’s own bossiness and constant belittling and humiliation of Moffitt by loading him with menial chores and failing to acknowledge the huge extent of his literary help in the books they published. But, as Prema pointed out, what Nikhilananda doesn’t take into account is that Moffitt really is drawn to Christianity and prefers it to Vedanta and Ramakrishna. Rather than admit that, it seems, Nikhilananda will blame himself.

  Not knowing Moffitt (I’m supposed to have met him once but I don’t remember it) I picture him as a weaker brother of mine. I think that he, like me, is prone to do more and accept more responsibility than he really wants to, and then to have violent reactions in which he goes to the opposite extreme. (Once, after nursing Nikhilananda with the utmost care, while he was sick in the country, he suddenly walked out on him, leaving him all alone.) I say he is weaker than I, because I know enough about myself, usually, to let off steam before the pressure gets dangerous.

  As for the bossiness of swamis, whole books could be written about this. They are nearly all arrogant—lacking in manners—by western standards. They push their disciples around. (Of course, I’m only speaking of the kind of swami who has disciples.) They push the younger swamis around, even. When you see Nikhilananda bullying Al Winslow or the countess, you feel he is compensating for what the British did to India. (Nikhilananda, to his credit, was an active anti-British terrorist in his teens and got sent to a concentration camp.)

  Went to the Cultural Institute for a social tea arranged by Ranganathananda; just another concealed lecture. I found Swami there, in bed with a cough; very rumpled and sad. He had become sick again at Sikra Kulingram. The country dust is blamed; but I got a strong impression (later confirmed by Prema) that the sickness has a lot to do with me. This is perhaps the only respect in which Swami can be described as sly; he is absolutely capable of getting sick to make you feel guilty, though I doubt if he realizes this—it is purely instinctive. Since I couldn’t possibly admit that I know this about him, all I could do was to be extra sweet, and at the same time absolutely firm about my decision. (As I said to Prema, I think the Hindu national technique of wheedling has even been developed in relation to God. Their motto is: All’s fair in prayer.)

  The atmosphere, even in Swami’s bedroom with the air conditioner working, was thick with smoke. Never have I known it worse. Ranganathananda tried to get me to stay the night; but I had nothing with me, so could excuse myself. Ranganathananda was belittling Swami’s illness and telling him he should do asanas. (He can lie on his stomach and bend so far backward that he looks straight up at the ceiling.) Swami was saying he’s too old to travel. I suspect that he’ll cut his trip short.

  So I had to double for him and myself as guest of honor at the grim tea reception. It was held in a room containing an enormous circular daybed, on which a sultan surrounded by a dozen reclining wives could easily sit. Ranganathananda tried to make me sit there, with the fifty (or so) guests around me. This I wouldn’t do. But after tea I had to let myself be publicly quizzed by him. He made everyone shush, and then asked me questions; I had to answer in a voice loud enough to be heard by all. Among other things, he tried to get me to say that I disapprove of the dirtiness of modern literature.

  Later the conversation became more general. Dr. Roy, wriggling girlishly, told us how he had seen a yogini, a woman of about thirty-five, levitate in a small mud hut. She did a lot of deep breathing, then took one great breath and rose into the air from the chair on which she had been standing. Dr. Roy and his friend, a skeptical chemist, passed their hands under her feet.

  Noticed, on the drive into Calcutta, the huge wheels of a bullock cart with a dwarfish driver sitting between them, pointing his stick at the bullock with the gesture of an enchanter pointing his wand.

  January 4. Today, Prema and Arup got their heads shaved, in preparation for sannyas. They were very coy about this. On the one hand, they didn’t want to expose their baldness; on the other, they wanted to tan the indecent whiteness of their skulls. The shaven Bengalis, with their brown skins, look perfectly natural. Prema told me he feels that this ceremony was a crossing of the rubicon. Now he is really committed. He and Arup have already been issued their gerua clothes, all neatly folded ready to be put on.

  All over the compound, the preparations for the big celebration on the 6th are almost ready. There is an arch over the entrance gate, numerous big pandals with blue and white striped curtains, tented entrances to the shrines of Brahmananda and Holy Mother, hung with glass chandeliers, a pavilion containing all the books about Vivekananda in every language. In several places, the cobra and swan emblem has been put up in wickerwork.

  A little golliwog-haired professor named Naresh Guha, whom I met at the tea yesterday, and who is writing a book on Yeats, came to take me to Javadpur University,587 where I gave a question-and-answer talk to the students. It went quite well. They seemed to understand everything I said, and they reacted. Among other things, I talked a good bit about Huxley.

  Later, I stopped in to see Swami briefly. He says he is better and is coming back to Belur tomorrow. Returned to Belur after visiting Guha’s apartment and meeting his wife. They had a copy of [Burroughs’s The] Naked Lunch and reproductions of a Van Gogh fruit tree and a Rouault.

  At supper, Prema and Arup were eating as much as they could possibly manage, because their fast begins tomorrow morning.

  Prema says he feels that no one should take sannyas until he has been “smashed” (I think that’s the word he used; anyhow he meant, until the ego has been smashed). He feels that his conflicts with the women at the Hollywood Center—particularly with Usha—were a form of disciplining by Mother Kali.

  January 5. Today I feel fairly well. The shits have continued until now, but this morning’s stool was thicker. What distresses me is my dullness. I feel nothing, nothing but the dull senseless urge to get the hell out of here. Such is my longing to do this that I’m not even nervous about the flight; a sinister sign. I feel only partly alive. Jacked off this morning, and not because I really wanted to—just out of meanness. I’m mean and sullen.

  Reading Tolstoy’s Resurrection, after finishing Balzac’s [La] Peau de Chagrin, a pretentious bore; Balzac is such an ass (no pun intended!)588 Tolstoy’s indignation is always fun, even when all else fails.

  In the morning, Sadhan Kumar Ghosh, who wrote My English Journey, P. Lal, Jai Ratan and Kewlian Sio came to see me.589 We talked in the guesthouse dining room. P. Lal writes poetry (a bit soppy), is tall and big, quite handsome though with a cast in one eye, married and a college professor. Ratan and Sio write short stories. Sio is a Catholic and some kind of a Chink. Neither of them talked. The other two were sort of teasing-flattering, in Indian style. They wanted to know how I had come to be able to write such beautiful prose. What was my secret? Ghosh’s book is quite amusing and bright, but it has a vicious attack on queers.

  Swami came back in the afternoon. He has a swelling on the side of his face which he is trying to reduce with hot compresses.

  January 6. A terrific wailing and drumming burst forth at about 4:30 a.m., announcing the Big Day. (Prema calls this “snake-charming music.”) After that, there was kirtan till breakfast. Jacked off as a protest and went back to sleep.

  Found Swami worried about his face. He has told Prema, “I want to have my ma
hasamadhi in India,” so Prema is worried too. Arup fell asleep—which is strictly against the rules during the sannyas fast—and dreamed of pork chops.

  The Math grounds were crowded all day. They were patrolled by thin-legged police in shorts; a whole encampment of them have moved in. Thousands of devotees were fed on leaf plates. Loudspeakers shouted. Kirtan singers wailed. One of the Swami’s sisters came to visit him, with a tribe of grandchildren. The little girl and the baby boy had their eyes made up—darkened with kohl to protect them from the glare of the sun. A line all day on the stairs to view Swamiji’s room.

  In the afternoon, there was a meeting. Despite his poor health, Swami presided and spoke. I spoke too—my last speech on religion, I do trust, anywhere.

  When we got back to Swami’s room, he held out his hand and asked me to massage it. I did my best, telling him that I’d never massaged a hand before. He answered, “Why can’t you do something for Swami you never did before?” He was in his “baby” mood. He kept dozing off but wanted us to stay in the room with him. Of course one had the suspicion that maybe this was a kind of inspired playacting. Wasn’t he perhaps in a high spiritual mood and giving us the privilege of serving the “It” which had taken him over? I hate this explanation because it sort of embarrasses me; but I don’t discount it. In that building, with Vivekananda right next door, it made perfect sense. In that atmosphere, the edges of personality get blurred, and Swami becomes a little bit Brahmananda-Vivekananda-Ramakrishna.

  Swami said to me this evening, “I can’t believe you’re going, Chris.”

  Nikhilananda (in a good mood at breakfast this morning), “This is the country of self-destruction.”

  The countess and Mrs. Beckmann are exultant—because they had been present at a special puja in Vivekananda’s room at which he had been “fed.” Also, a little, because I hadn’t been there. Women attach extraordinary importance to such occasions. I can never quite believe in this kind of religious enthusiasm—but that’s merely because I seem incapable of it.